Ulysses Quotes - Page 3 | Just Great DataBase

—What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance.

Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

God! ... Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.

He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.

I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

...the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

Going to a dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc's auk's egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of Darkinbad the Brightdayler.

—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly: --I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves.

She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband.

Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic.

Look at the woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost.

A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.

...the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars.

Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.

How mingled and imperfect are all our sublunary joys!

They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already.

I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

A duodene of bird notes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hand. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leave-taking, life's, love's morn.

Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places.

Haines sat down to pour out the tea. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you? Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: —When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.

God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain.

Kyrie ! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind.

That is god... A shout in the street,' Stephen answered...